Beer, Bullets, and Love
by XPonies
Summary: When England gets into a situation after drinking one too many, who will be there to care for him when he really needs it? Warning: This Fan-fiction uses The countries human names and has USUK or UKUS. Do not read if you don't like that. I do not own Hetalia. That honor goes to Himaruya Hidekazu.
1. Chapter 1: Pirate

Arthur had gone to the pub.

_Again._

It had been a hard day. The conference room was louder than normal; the bickering of nations had risen in volume considerably. Britain had fought with France (as usual) until the meeting was nearly over. France had become preoccupied his hair, ("Beautiful hair, Ohonhonhon" as he would say,) which caused their conversation to cease existence.

Britain then began a heated argument with America. This time it was concerning the idiocy of America's plan to feed the hungry with one giant, universal, hamburger ("It's going to get old and moldy, and the grease will cause anyone who eats such a horrid thing to puke out their guts!" he had said, "Where the bloody hell would you get such a big patty anyways?!").

The meeting, and the entire day itself, had angered, frustrated, and tired England out so much… _that he just wanted it all to go away._

And who better to grant his wish than a few drinks of alcoholic beverage?

_No one. So they were a welcomed friend._

But the bartender was new. He didn't know that after a few glasses of scotch that Arthur would start to wail about how Alfred left him in the revolution. That he would start to sob to himself in a drunken heap, crying to any nearby patrons (even if he didn't know them) in the bar that Alfred could never, and would never, understand his true feelings that he hide away under a cloak of hatred and insults.

But all the other people in the bar at the time were regular customers. They already knew about England's "tragic" life story.

But the most important mistake that could be made that was the new bartender didn't know about Arthur's drinking habits, what would happen if Arthur had too much. But none of the other patrons bothered to tell him. Maybe they didn't care. Or forgot. Or honestly didn't know. But the new bartender wasn't informed.

So no one realized that Arthur _did_ have one too many.

However, the bartender had briefly wondered, _Why was this man suddenly so calm and quiet? Wasn't he sobbing and wailing just moments ago? _But the bartender was quite happy with the peace and quiet that ensued.

But Arthur was tentatively reaching over to an empty beer bottle, left by the previous customer. While the bartender was busy submerged in his own thoughts, Arthur grabbed the bottle by the neck, and _smashed the bottom on the wooden bar top tabletop._

The room went (relatively) silent. All eyes were glued on the one man sitting at the bar, now holding a makeshift weapon. The bartender noticed this too, of course, and quickly he pressed the emergency 911 call button underneath the bar top. He only had enough time to do this simple action before Arthur jumped up onto the bar top, and the bartender found himself with a bottle pressed to him neck. _He was being held at bottle-point._ He raised his hands in an act of surrender.

"Hand over the loot." Arthur said, a serious look in his darkened green eyes, as if this wasn't one of the most absurd things that could have happened. He gestured quickly with his bottle at the most expensive scotch that the pub owned, before pointing it back at the bartender.

The bartender was hesitant in handing over the scotch to this man. _Loot? _He thought, _Why would he say loot?_ But another look into the intoxicated man's eyes, (though he didn't seem so intoxicated anymore), and he complied to the strange request.

Arthur was in the process of grabbing the scotch when two police officers barged in through the door, much to the surprise of most of the patrons, small gasps escaping their lips. The bartender was filled with relief. These officers were prepared for an armed robbery, their guns raised at the man standing on the table. However, the sudden commotion going on behind Arthur only caused him to turn around, slowly and calmly, as a smirk formed on his face.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" He taunted as he stepped down onto a bar stool, spinning once around as the stool swivelled, and onto the ground. It was miraculous that Arthur didn't lose his balance and fall over in the process.

"Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air!" a policeman yelled, his gun trained on England.

"Don't make us use force!" the other added.

"How dare you threaten me!" England yelled loudly, his mood drastically changing from calm to furious, "Do you not know who I am!? Does fear not creep into you when you hear my name whispered into your ears!?"

_Holy crap,_ The bartender thought, _Is this guy a wanted criminal!?_

"Stay where you are!" The first policeman ordered, as England began to saunter towards them. The second policeman was ushering bystanders out of the pub. They didn't want any innocents caught in this mess.

"I'm the most vicious pirate of all the seas!" England yelled angrily, his voice rising in volume, as he raised his sword into the air, as if he thought that it was going to shimmer in the sunlight. He clearly ignored what the policeman just said.

"I'm CAPTAIN, BLOODY, KIRKLAND!" He practically screamed, voice rising even higher in volume as he took a lunge towards the closest policeman.

_BLAM_

A searing pain shot through his shoulder as he was knocked backwards by the impact. He lost his balance as he cried in agony from the pain, hitting his head off of the closest barstool. He fell to the ground on his back, his hand twisted beneath him, gasping for air.

"Call an ambulance!" someone yelled, Arthur couldn't see whom, as his eyes were glued to his right shoulder , which was currently gushing what looked like a lot of scarlet liquid from the gunshot wound. He watched, feeling completely helpless, as the blood drenched his clothes and the carpeted floor. His left hand clutched at his shoulder, futilely trying to slow the flow of scarlet.

The bartender, who had been watching the entire scene unfold, quickly called 911 after getting over the initial shock. He relayed the situation to the emergency respondents on the other end of the line.

One of the policemen ran over and removed the jacket of his police uniform. He bunched it into a ball, and attempted to apply pressure to the wound.

"AAAHHHGG!" Arthur unwillingly cried out in pain, squirming away from the policeman's touch.

But he couldn't get far before somebody the policeman cried, panicked, "Somebody, GRAB HIM!" The other policeman ran over and firmly held Arthur in place, despite his protests. England gave up though, the other man was larger and stronger than he was, and his body was weakening from blood loss and exertion.

The police man applied pressure to the wound again, causing Arthur to cry out in pain once again, tough louder this time. Tears were forming at the edges of his eyes, causing his vision to blur. He shut his eyes tightly to stop them from sliding down his face, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

"I'm sorry", The policeman applying pressure choked out, "But it's for your own good…" Very soon the paramedics arrived, rushing to the scene and taking over the policeman's job.

"Get a stretcher and lift him onto it!" One ordered the others. Arthur could only whimper in pain as he was lifted, the last of his strength being sapped away.

"He's going into shock!"

Arthur could only remember getting halfway to the ambulance before passing out from the pain.


	2. Chapter 2: Hero

Alfred was in the neighbourhood.

For the conference meeting. It was being hosted in London, England, conveniently in the city where Arthur lived. However, the actual meeting was held in a very-fancy but equally-cheap conference room booked by England. Unlike some of the other countries who hosted the less important meetings at their houses, England was very particular about who was allowed into his house (the idea of letting France into his house reinforced his decision). Alfred secretly hoped that he and England could have tea like they sometimes did after meetings (he enjoyed tea with England, even though Alfred was not very fond of the beverage himself), even if "tea time" usually ended in and argument of some sort.

Alfred heard the ambulance before he saw it. He had been walking back to his hotel room from the store closest to the hotel he was staying in. He had been disappointed that most of the food at the convenience store was "the British crap". He couldn't understand how anyone could eat British food. But he eventually found what he was looking for. Coffee.

On a normal day Alfred would be sleeping right now. It was near midnight, after all. But Alfred knew that he would want his caffeinated beverage tomorrow morning, mostly to help him wake up. But his hotel suit didn't have any coffee in it, and he hadn't brought any with him. If he didn't get his coffee he would wind up being a miserable sack of potatoes. So, close to falling asleep, he forced himself out of bed to trudge down to the store to get some coffee. With his treasure in hand, he walked out of the convenience store and began to walk peacefully home, a large goofy grin plastered onto his face.

That is, until the ambulance whizzed by him-effectively disrupting the peacefulness of the walk- its lights and sirens on full blast. It was especially hard not to notice it considering how quiet the street was. The wind that was currently gathering behind the ambulance blew America's hair around to the front of his face and nearly caused his glasses to fly off. They stopped short of flying off and remained crooked on the end of his nose.

America stopped in his tracks and hugged the coffee tin closer to his chest, the rush of wind chilling him suddenly. He stood and gawked at the sheer speed that the vehicle was able to achieve and was travelling at. It had only been a few seconds ago that it had passed him, but it was already nothing but a white speck in the distance.

_I wonder what happened… _Alfred found himself thinking, _Is that ambulance going to where somebody is hurt, or is it returning with someone who is fatally injured? _

America had figured out that the ambulance likely had somebody inside in need of immediate medical assistance. He also concluded that they were badly hurt by how fast the ambulance was going. He just didn't know that that person was England.

Fixing his glasses, Alfred slowly resumed his walk back to the hotel.

Alfred unlocked the door to his hotel and stepped inside. He kicked off his shoes, leaving them to lie haphazardly on the ground in front of the doorway. Practically throwing the coffee tin onto the table, he collapsed onto the messy white comforter on the bed, sighing as he sank into it.

The ambulance was still in his mind, although he didn't know why he was so impacted by it. As a country he had been through countless wars before, some more impactful than others, he had been the unfortunate victim of seeing friends of his fall around him while he still stood. But this one ambulance was able to stop him in his tracks and consider the possibilities of what could be happening, instead of continuing on his way back to the hotel without interruption. _Why?_

_You don't have enough time to worry about every stranger who's hurt, _Alfred thought to himself. He hoped that he didn't sound too cold, even if he was just talking to himself. It was true, though. If he kept worrying about people he didn't even know, he might just stop worrying about himself. _Go to bed._

But even when he relaxed and settled down into bed, he found that he could not fall asleep. He was uncomfortable. He had managed to tangle himself in his blanket while attempting to find a more relaxing position. Alfred blamed it on the time zone change. Or maybe it was that the cold air from his trip to the store had woken him up. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite his mind's protests, the ambulance was still bouncing around in his brain. Eventually he had even tried to will himself to sleep by downing a glass of warm milk, remembering how England would make it for him as a kid when he was scared or had a nightmare.

He missed that.

_PleasegotobedgotobedgotobedIwannasleepgotobedgotob e-_

Eventually, America decided that he should just get up. He wasn't going to fall asleep anyways, and he wasn't doing anything productive lying in bed. If they had been with him, he probably would have played his Xbox or PS3. But his game consoles were still at home, so he pulled himself out of bed and put on the coffee maker- very glad that he had gotten coffee from the store - and slipped in the coffee pot underneath the spout.

While he was waiting for the coffee to finish, he looked through the cupboards in search of a mug, idly fiddling with his hair and impatiently drumming his fingers on the countertop. _Why can't I find a mug? _He thought irritably. By the time a mug was located, the coffee was ready.

Alfred poured himself a hefty cup of coffee and sat down at the counter.

Arthur awoke still inside the ambulance. A burning pain throbbed insistently in his shoulder. His wrist also throbbed painfully, as did his head. Arthur could feel something warm on his forehead. He pondered what it was for a moment, before realizing that it was his own blood.

"Ugh…" he sighed as he opened his eyes slightly. He could now see and feel that there was an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He tried to cradle his throbbing head, but found out quickly that he felt too weak to manage the action.

"Try not to move." A paramedic who was sitting nearby whispered, supposedly not to startle him. The paramedic was currently checking all the instruments to make sure they were functioning properly. The inconsistent beeping of a heart monitor rang in Arthur's ears.

From his current position, Arthur could see out of the rectangular back double door windows. Looking out into the darkness of the night, he could faintly make out a familiar profile standing under the street lamp. The figure was wearing a very familiar bomber jacket, a certain blond strand of hair standing up on his head.

"_Alfred…_ "Arthur whispered as he looked longingly at the figure getting smaller as they sped down the street. Arthur suddenly felt very tired; as if when he closed his eyes he would fall asleep immediately.

"What was that?" the paramedic said as he leaned in closer so he could hear.

"Alfred…Jones…" Arthur managed before his eyes closed and the void of unconsciousness embraced him once again.

Alfred had barely started to drink his coffee when his phone rang.

_B-bring B-bring_

The noise startled Alfred out of his day dreaming. _Dude, who could be calling me right now? It's like, one-o'clock in the morning! _Alfred thought as he got up from the counter.

_Bring Bring_

"I'm coming I'm coming…" He muttered under his breath as he headed over to his bed, where the source of the ringing was coming from. After a quick search through the still tangled comforter, he found his mobile phone in his bed.

"Yo?" Alfred said as he picked it up, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Is this Alfred Jones?" a very professional-and slightly irritated- female voice questioned.

"Um, yeah."

"Do you know a man by the name of 'Arthur Kirkland?'" Her questioning voice almost sounded grimmer, like bad news was to follow suit.

"Y-yeah…" Who was this lady and why was she asking about England?

"I'm afraid I have some bad news to deliver…" Her next words forced Alfred to sit down on the couch. He was afraid that he might fall over if he didn't, because his legs were starting to feel like jelly. _Artie? Shot?_

"…"

_Thiscan'tbehappeningwhyisthishappeningthiscan'tbeh ap-_

"Sir? Are you alright?" she asked, concern showing in her voice at the extended silence that she received after delivering the bad news.

Ye-yeah, I-I'm fine." But Alfred's voice cracked near the end of his sentence and he let free a sob that he was trying to contain throughout the conversation.

"He's in emergency surgery right now. The bullet didn't pass clean through. Luckily the bullet didn't hit any major arteries. You will be allowed to see him as soon as he is done and stabilized."

"O-okay. Thanks for calling me." And then he hung up. He placed his phone on the table, his trembling hands threatening to drop it, as hot tears rolled down his quickly pushed himself into the corner of the couch. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in his forearms and sobbed quietly.

_Why Arthur? _He questioned the world _Why does it have to be him? My mentor, my 'friend', the person who looked after me as a kid, th-_

_You're acting very un-hero like. _He told himself.

_Heroes can cry too, y'know._

_Get off the coach, Alfred. Ya gotta be strong._

_Why? It's not like I can do anything t' help him. I'm not a doctor._

_Yes. There is something you can do. You can protect him, Alfred. You gotta be strong for_ him.

Alfred's self motivation attempts finally got through to him and he slowly pulled his head out from his forearms and rested it on the back of the couch. He looked up at the ceiling as he wiped away the last of the tears leaking from his eyes. He thought about it. What if Arthur couldn't be strong for himself? He couldn't stand to think about of Arthur being completely helpless and stuck on a hospital bed. What if France came along while he was vulnerable and…

_No. _He had to be Iggy's hero.

Alfred slipped on his signature bomber jacket and grabbing his hotel room keys, he stumbled over his shoes, which were still laying in the doorway, as he walked out the door. He picked himself up off the floor and, still in his pyjamas, walked briskly, effectively forgetting to put on his shoes.

His coffee was stone cold.


	3. Chapter 3: Quiet

America was more than half way to the hospital before he realized that he had forgotten to put on his shoes. However, this realization didn't seem to stop him, because he did not turn back to grab them. In his mind, that would have been too much time wasted.

In fact, Alfred was so focused on getting to the hospital that he didn't even mind (much) when the hotel receptionist's face showed a look of complete disbelief as he charged out of the hotel lobby, wearing only his pyjamas and jacket. His lack of shoes only added to her confusion.

As it was still early in the morning, there weren't many people about. However, the few people that happened to pass by, likely on their way to work or on some sort of early morning trip, each gave him a look similar to the receptionist's. A look of confusion, surprise, and disbelief. The typical politeness that a stranger usually gives to another was seemingly forgotten, as most did not bother to hide the fact that they were staring, but America did not care for their opinions; he was a man on a mission.

And that mission was Arthur.

So far, Alfred had been law abiding during his journey to the hospital, other than occasionally running into a flustered pedestrian as he made his way down the street. But the stoplight he was currently waiting at was testing his patience.

"C'mon, C'mon...!" He mumbled impatiently and a bit incoherently as he drummed his fingers on his pants, his foot also tapping furiously. To a passerby, he would just look like the typical person in a hurry, but his tapping was also laced with worry and concern.

Even though Alfred couldn't see any cars coming to pass through the green light, it did not show any sign of changing anytime soon. It seemed to America that the little white walking man was taunting him with its existence.

Finally, America couldn't take the waiting anymore. Letting out an exasperated sigh, though the light was still red, he started walking swiftly across the intersection. He didn't bother to look both ways before crossing, his mind too preoccupied, even though this was a vital skill that England had taught him back when he was a colony.

The screeching of tires to his right caused him to turn mid-step, where a pair of blinding headlights filled his sights. Temporarily blinded by the sudden light in the darkness of the morning, America was frozen like a deer in the headlights until he came to his senses, launching himself onto the sidewalk, landing hard.

"Look where you're going, moron!" A male voice shouted angrily from the vehicle as it drove past. Regaining his vision, the black ebbing out of his eyes, he looked at where he was standing just moments ago, and noticed the black tire marks on the road. He smelled the acrid stench of burning rubber as he lay on the ground, trying to catch his breath.

_Well, that was stupid of me, _he thought as he got his breathing in check.

"S-sir, are you okay?" A quiet, timid voice whispered.

At first Alfred thought that the voice might belong to a small child, "Yeah", he answered, rubbing the back of his head gingerly, "I'm fine, it's-" He began, looking upwards, where his gaze met that of two violet eyes.

"America?" Canada, the owner of the violet eyes, inquired.

"Canada?" America was as equally confused to see Canada here, of all places. Was he at the conference meeting yesterday? Had it only been yesterday that he had seen England?

_It seems like such a long time ago..._

"America! How could you pull such a stunt! Why couldn't you have just waited patiently for the light to change like everybody else? Did you even look both ways? That was very idiotic of you!" Canada's naturally-quiet rambling jolted him from his thoughts, "Where are you even going this early in the morning? It usually takes you forever t-"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever!" America cut him off, his face growing slightly redder with embarrassment from Canada's comment as he waved his hand at him in a 'shoo' motion. Surely waking up late wasn't a bad thing, right? "I gotta go, like, _now_man," He insisted as he tried to stand up.

America quickly discovered that if he tried to put any weight on his left ankle that it would hurt tremendously. In his attempts to stand, he had made the unknowing mistake and winced, lurching forwards as he lost his balance. Luckily, he fell back down unscathed.

"America!" Canada exclaimed for the third time in their short encounter, "What's wrong?"

"Hmph. I must've twisted my ankle when I made that heroic landing onto the sidewalk." America brushed of Canada's question as if it were no big deal, while Canada helped him to his feet. America tested how much weight he could put on his ankle as he leaned on Canada, who in turn struggled under his weight.

"Maple..." Canada muttered, "How many hamburgers have you been eating..." Canada looked down at America's foot, his intention to assess the damage himself; however, instead he acknowledged America's missing footwear.

"America, where are your shoes?"

"Oh, uh, I, forgot them at the, uh, hotel..."

"How can you just forget your shoes?"

America ignored the question, "C'mon, man. We gotta get to the hospital." He mumbled as he limped forwards.

"Of course we do! We need to get that ankle of yours looked at. America?" America looked at Canada, "You're going the wrong way." He stated, steering America in the right direction.

"Oh." America, in his hastened state, hadn't bothered to ask where the hospital actually _was. _He hadn't really needed it in his past visits to London, so he was just heading in the direction that he thought it would be, "But that's not why we need to go to the hospital."

"Eh?"

Finally getting a good look at America in the darkness, Canada had desperately tried to ignore the prominent redness in and around his eyes. However, they clearly showed him that something was wrong, because not much could make the optimistic nation this upset.

"Artie...he...um..." America bit his lip," He got...shot."

"What!?"

"Y-yeah. I was just going there to see him."

They both stood awkwardly for a moment, Canada startled at the news and processing the information. "It's this way," Canada broke the silence as they started to walk towards the hospital, America hobbling ungracefully down the street. They weren't moving as fast as America would have liked and he proceeded to make numerous comments on the topic, but they got there soon enough. What greeted them was a tall, white building, a large red 'H' sitting atop the roof.

America's pain appeared to be momentarily forgotten as he shimmied out of Canada's grasp and rushed into the hospital, leaving the Canadian to race after him. He stumbled through the door and onto the receptionist's desk, startling many other people waiting as well as the nurse behind the desk.

America was unable to form full sentences as he spat out his words, panting heavily as he leaned on the desk, "Arthur...! Eyebrows-" He raised two of his fingers to his own eyebrows, creating the impression that they were rather large, "-Where?!"

The nurse at the desk raised her eyebrow at America, clearly confused with the jumble of words that were seemingly related. The nurse glanced around America, seeing Canada, who had caught up and was standing shyly behind him. He was looking at America, disbelief playing on his features.

"Excuse me," the nurse addressed Canada, who was surprised that he had been noticed standing behind America, "But, do you know what he means?" She pointed her thumb discreetly at America.

"Oh, we would like to know where a patient by the name of 'Arthur Kirkland' is…" He replied politely and quietly.

"That's what I just said!" America exclaimed, letting out a grunt of frustration as he collapsed onto the desk.

"'Eyebrows' isn't the most efficient way to describe someone..." Canada muttered quietly, though the comment went unnoticed by the other two.

"Mhmm. Arthur Kirkland..." Both Canada and America heard the clacking of the keyboard keys as she typed in something into her computer, "Here we go. He just came in this morning. He's currently in the Emergency Department." Alfred lifted his head off of the table," I'm sorry, but he's not allowed visitors yet." An exasperated sigh was America's immediate response.

"Well, when _can_ we see him?" America questioned impatiently.

"Once he's out of the Emergency Department, he will be allowed visitors. "

"Do you think that we could get a doctor to look at his ankle? He hurt it on the way here." Canada asked quietly, indicating America's ankle, which he was currently avoiding putting weight on.

"It's fine." America said firmly, leaning off the counter to demonstrate. He tried to stand normally, but he couldn't stop the yelp that escaped his lips. He immediately removed the weight from his ankle, balancing on one foot.

"That is not _fine_, America." Canada replied as he draped one of America's arms over his shoulder and put his own around his waist.

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiinnne" America whined childishly.

Canada arranged a meeting with a doctor as America made his way over to a row of waiting chairs. Soon Canada joined him, only to find America glaring at the opposite wall, his head resting on the palms of his hands.

"Alfred Jones?" A doctor asked the mostly empty room, not many others were waiting other than the two of them, as he looked up from his clipboard. America lifted himself up, with help from the uncomfortable hospital chair, and hobbled unsteadily over to where the doctor was waiting. Canada remained seated as they left.

Soon America came back, his ankle now dressed with sterile white bandages. "He says it's only sprained. I should be fine in a few days." He said when he saw Canada sit up a bit straighter, "He says that I shouldn't walk too heavily on it either."

"Well, that's some good news."

"You may see your friend now," The nurse said before America even had the chance to sit down. "He's in room '03', 4th floor, 'D' wing."

"He's not really my-" Canada put his hand over his brother's mouth, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence.

"We'll take the elevator, Al," At the mention of these words, America practically ran towards it, despite the doctors orders. There he stood waiting, repeatedly pressing the up button, even if it was just a distraction for his mind.

A quiet _ding_ announced the arrival of said elevator; as soon as the doors opened he jumped inside, switching buttons so that he was instead repeatedly pressing the button for the 4th floor. He finally stopped when the elevator started moving. He had nearly forgotten about Canada, until he'd felt him get in the elevator with him.

America had been prepared to run out of the elevator as soon as they got to the fourth floor and the doors opened. However, he was stopped from doing so by Canada, who had grabbed the back of his shirt.

"Slow down, America," He said even quieter then usual, as not to disturb the other patients, though his voice was already quiet enough. "There are other people here."

"Yeah, yeah, let's go." America replied, not as quiet as Canada would have hoped, as he pulled away from Canada's grasp once again. Canada sighed as America dashed out of the elevator, deserting him.

"05D...04D...03D!" America mumbled-then exclaimed- as he counted the numbers above the doors. America arrived at England's room, just as the doctor was stepping out, leaving the door slightly ajar. America would've bumped into him, but the doctor noticed and stepped out of the way just in time.

"Is this Arti-Arthur's room?" He wheezed, deciding that using the Englishman's full name might give him better results.

"Yes, but, who are you, exactly?" The doctor questioned, looking at his clip board, "He has a mister 'Alfred Jones' down as his emergency contact..."

"Yeah...that's me" He answered, one hand bracing himself on the wall. _Why was he his emergency contact? _"I'm a... close friend?" America briefly thought of all the times he had been called an idiot by Britain, among other names. Would 'close friends' be stretching it?

"Well Mr. Jones-"

"Alfred is fine."

"-Alfred, as his contact there are a few things you should know before visiting." He flipped through the many papers on his clip board. "It seems that Mr. Kirkland has suffered a minor concussion, as well as a sprained wrist. He was shot through his right shoulder; surgery has been performed to remove the bullet as well as the fragments. He's still sleeping from the anesthetic given to him during the procedure. So far, all the signs are good ones. We expect him to make a full recovery, and he will still be able to use his shoulder to its full extent." He looked up from his clipboard, "I should tell you that although he was shot by a policeman, nobody has decided to press charges."

"Thanks."

"He's been mumbling about you in his sleep." The doctor said before he went to check on his other patients in other rooms. America raised an eyebrow.

Canada caught up to America as the doctor left and he stepped into England's room.

"Wait for me here?" America asked. Canada nodded.

America walked quietly into the room, shutting the door behind him, the constant beeping of a heart monitor greeting his ears. He looked tentatively over at England, his still form lying on the hospital bed in a seemingly peaceful slumber. His normally wild mop of hair was even messier then usual, strands of dirty blond sticking up randomly. Its appearance was aided by a bandage wrapped around his forehead, his hair also splaying out on the hospital pillow his head was resting on.

White, sterile bandages were wrapped around his right wrist, which lay limply by his side above the sheets covering the lower portion of his body. He could see more bandages on his shoulder, barely noticeable unless you were looking for them, poking out from beneath a green hospital gown. England's expression was not one that America had seen often. His eyebrows, his most prominent feature, were not furrowed together in anger of frustration. Rather they were relaxed, something that brought America great relief.

America dragged a chair over to the side of the bed, as quietly as he could. Sitting down, he gently took England's injured hand in his own, rubbing his thumb on England's in a soothing gesture.

"I really hope you're okay, dude." He said, gently tracing the lines on England's palm, his hand meeting the green hospital bracelet on his wrist soon enough, which read '_Arthur Kirkland'. _His normally loud and obnoxious voice, as others would describe it, was quiet and somber.

"I don't know how this happened, Iggy, at least not the whole story. They say you were shot by a policeman. My guess is that you were wasted or something, 'cause I can't think of any other way this could have happened if you were sober, y'know?" He chuckled quietly, biting his lip afterwards in a vain attempt to stop the tears swelling at the edges of his eyes from making the journey down his cheeks.

"I-I know that nations c-can't die, at least not really... "He choked out, his attempts at stopping his tears demolished as they rolled hot down his face, dripping off onto the bandages on England's wrist, "But it's hard to see you like this..." America lightly squeezed England's hand, trying to provide some comfort without hurting him. Whether the comfort was for himself or England's sake, he wasn't sure. He brushed some stray hair away from hanging in England's eyes. He looked down at his hands, sitting in silence for quite a while.

"D-don't c-c-cry, America..." England whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes only half open as he weakly lifted his other arm to wipe away the offending tears left on America's face, revealing an IV taped to the back of his left hand.

"England..." America touched England's hand to his face for a moment, wiping his eyes, before England collapsed back onto the bed with a sigh. America picked up on the hoarseness in England's voice, filling up a glass of water. After England's initial refusal to accept help from America to drink it, America managed to help him drink the water.

"W-where am I?" England asked with his eyes closed. He reached up a hand to his head, which was throbbing, to discover the bandage wrapped around it, "Does it seem bright in here to you?"

"You're in the hospital, Art. You were shot." America replied, "It's not even that light out, yet..." He muttered, confused.

"Shot? How-" England vaguely remembered bits and pieces of the last night. Scotch...foggy memories of a new bartender... Spain and his pirate days... and faces moving in and out of his vision as he lay on the floor. He did start to notice a dull pain in his shoulder. He craned his head to look at it, finding that it was dressed with bandages. His sight soon moved down to his injured wrist, and he winced as he tried to move it.

"My guess is that you were drunk..." America said blatantly, a small smirk forming on his face.

"That would explain why I don't remember much of last night..." England grumbled, almost to himself. _And why it seems so bright._ He tried to sit up, a difficult task to accomplish in his weakened state. Nevertheless, with his stubbornness, he was able to prop himself up, America moving his pillow into a more comfortable and supporting position.

"Ugh." he moaned, as he rested his head on the back of the hospital bed. He felt groggy, the world beginning to spin around him from the blood rushing out of his head. A wave of nausea hit him and he swallowed it down with some difficulty, bringing his hand back to his head. He hoped that it would pass.

"Hey Iggy, you feeling okay?" America inquired, scooting forwards until he was on the edge of his seat.

"It's England, dammit..." He mumbled irritably. This was the worst hangover he'd had in a while, not at all aided by the fact that he was in a hospital. He certainly did not _feel _fine, but admitting that to America would destroy what dignity he had left. "Pass me the waste bin." He demanded, pointing to the small waste bin in the corner of the room.

"Okay..." America said hesitantly, a bewildered expression crossing his face. Getting up, he crossed the space between the bed and the garbage bin swiftly, bringing it back to England, "But, why do you need it?"

England grabbed it as soon as it was within his grasp, "Because I think I'm going to-" He wasn't able to explain before he bent over and vomited into the small waste bin.

America sat awkwardly, not experienced in these types of situations, as England vomited up the contents of his stomach from the night before. America gently patted him on the back, occasionally rubbing circles. England forcefully placed the garbage can down beside his bed once he was done retching. He flopped back into sitting position with a moan, one hand on top of his stomach.

"Do you have any aspirin?" England asked as he closed his eyes.

"No. Why?"

"Apparently somebody has had a hangover..." He mumbled, just loud enough for America to hear, as he turned away from him and looked out the window. Still low in the sky, the soft orange glow of the sun was just visible between the buildings.

"What happened to your foot?" England inquired, not turning away from the view, an orange glow being cast across his face. He had noticed America's sock clad feet and newly wrapped ankle when he had put down the garbage can.

"Huh? Oh! On my way hear I almost got run over by a car for walking through a red light. But, being the hero, I dodged epically out of the way!" The last part America yelled as he fist pumped the air, the volume of his voice hurting England's currently sensitive ears, partially due to the hangover and part from the concussion.

"Y-you WHAT?" England exclaimed, the heart monitor by the bed accelerating rapidly as he sat bolt upright. He turned and leaned closer to America as he began to make wild hand gestures, exerting much of his energy, as well as putting a strain on his wrist and shoulder.

"Wo-Woah _woah. _Calm down dude." He said as he carefully pushed England back down onto the bed, being mindful of his shoulder and glancing worriedly at the heart monitor, "I already got this lecture from Canada..."

"Canada?" England asked with an exasperated sigh, allowing himself to be pushed back into the bed. All of this excessive flailing had tired him out.

"Yeah, y'know, quiet, has a polar bear. We met on the sidewalk after I almost became road kill. Though I didn't see his bear with him..."

"Oh," England replied. His shoulder was starting to bother him quite a bit now. The pain, which was likely dulled by some sort of painkiller, was beginning to become more persistent. "Is he here as well?"

"Canada? Yeah, he should be outside your room if he didn't leave. He came with me."

England nodded, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He winced as he jolted his wrist and banged he shoulder off of the back of the bed, which certainly did nothing to help the pain.

"Artie, you okay?" America seemed to have picked up on England's increased number of scowls, many of which were directed at his shoulder, "Is it your shoulder? Do ya nee-"

"_Arthur,"_ England enunciated each syllable, "And, No. I'm-" He grimaced, "-I'm _fine_" He stated firmly, glaring at America.

"Y'know, I'm sure that the nurse could give you some painkillers or something..." America continued, completely disregarding England's protests, as he looked around the room, searching for something.

"Alfred! I already said that I'm fine!" England clenched his fists, "There is no need for-"

"Hey, Iggy. Your heart monitor is doing that really fast beeping thingy again. " America eyed the heart monitor sternly, "You got shot in the shoulder, right? Right. So why do you wanna be in pain the entire time?" America asked, not expecting an answer. Nor did he receive one, only grumbling from England, "Not everyone is going to hurt you..." America said in an undertone. America finally found what he was looking for, the nurse call button. He pressed the button a few times, repeatedly, and waited.

Soon, a nurse came bustling in, "What would you like?" She asked sweetly, most likely directing the question at Arthur, who glared, however his eyes were almost pleading.

Instead she received an answer from America, "He need's some painkillers, his shoulder's bothering him." He threw a thumb over his shoulder at England.

"I'm FINE!" England cried, his exclamation likely heard in the other rooms near him. In truth, his shoulder was really bothering him now. But England refused to side with America.

The nursed looked at the heart monitor as well, concerned, which was increasing in speed once more. Alfred motioned for her to lean in closer, so he could talk to her without Arthur hearing.

"Ignore him. He doesn't like to accept help from others. He's stubborn like that." He whispered, England only managing to catch the words 'ignore' and 'stubborn'. Then even more quietly he continued, "Besides, I'm his emergency contact."

The nurse nodded at Alfred, silently leaving the room. England bent over and groaned as he put his elbows on his knees and face palmed, running his hands partway through his hair. It felt so dirty. God, he needed a shower. He had the impending feeling that he had lost this battle against America. Soon enough, England's suspicions were confirmed when the nurse came back in with a syringe filled with medicine. Before he could begin to protest, she injected it into the IV bag, said 'Sorry, hun' and left the room.

"Git," England growled into his hands, "I am _not _stubborn."

America chuckled, a wide, goofy grin spreading across his face.

England could already feel the side affects of the medication. Though his shoulder did feel better already, the pain hardly noticeable, he was starting to feel drowsy, his eyelids growing heavy. They started to flutter close, and he fought what seemed like a losing battle to keep them open. His head was still resting in his hands, and he was thinking about how good it might be just to close his eyes and drift off-

"Iggy? Earth to Englaaand..." America had noticed that England had started to sway back and forth on his elbows, his eyes barely open. America poked him gently, "Iggy?"

"Hmm?" England turned sleepily towards America, eyes opening a bit more, blinking slowly. America's eyes seemed so pretty today, bright blue orbs of colour...

"Y'okay?" America questioned for the second time that day, cocking his head to the side as he met England's eyes with his own, "Ya' tired?

"No...I'm fine..." England yawned, his head drooping as he briefly closed his eyes and then snapped them open again. A small smile made its way onto his face, but it was quickly replaced by a frown as he yawned again.

"You don't have to stay awake because I'm here." America said, "I won't do anything," He briefly thought of France, but quickly brushed away the thought.

England didn't respond other than a faint 'mhmm'.

"C'mere," America said when England didn't show any sign of moving. He got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the bed, gently grabbing England around the waist and pulled him down onto him so his head was resting in his lap. He brushed away the hair from England's face.

"How 'bout you get some rest?" He whispered quietly as he watched England fight to keep his fluttering eyes open. Soon, he gave into his tiredness and closed his eyes, falling asleep soon afterwards.

America thought he heard England mutter something along the lines of 'Bloody git', but it could have just been a figment of his imagination. He didn't linger long before moving England's head to the pillow, slipping out from underneath him. He hoped that he left England in a comfortable position. Wobbling a bit when he first got up, he stole one last glance at England's sleeping form before he hobbled out of the room, unsure of how long he had been inside.

Canada was waiting outside for him, "How is he?" He asked. He had noticed that a nurse had gone in there with a syringe, but he decided not to comment on it.

"He's okay." America replied, looking back at the door he had closed behind him with a thoughtful expression on his face, "He fell asleep, just before I left." Canada nodded.

America's stomach grumbled. He hadn't eaten anything since the day before, and the last thing that he had consumed was a half a cup of coffee. In short, he was starving. He began to walk down the hall to the elevator, his gait lopsided.

"America?" Canada questioned, starting to walk to America, "Where are you going?"

"I'm starved." America replied, his stomach agreeing with him, "I think I saw a McDonald's on the way here."

And with that, America's thoughts were shifted to focus on how many 'Big Mac's' he was going to buy when he got there.


End file.
